


Calling the Police in Belgravia

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different point of view on a well-known scene. Greg Lestrade and John deal with Sherlock after his first encounter with Irene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg was enjoying the last bit of his tuna mayonnaise sandwich at his desk when his mobile phone rang. Caller ID identified it as John Watson, so he answered with his mouth still half full.

"John. Is everything OK?" When there wasn't a case on, it wasn't like the doctor to call him unless there was a problem.

"Sherlock's just fired a gun; his idea of calling the police."

"Christ- whose gun? Anyone hurt? Where are you?"

"26 Boscobel Place, Belgravia. I've already called Mycroft; this could be messy because there is a dead American on the floor of the living room."

Lestrade closed his eyes for a second. In his nightmares, he took a phone call from a hospital to say they'd found a drug overdose victim. Or worse, a morgue to say that Sherlock had been found dead- the victim of some criminal who had just had enough of the consulting detective. But rarely in this imaginings had he thought of Sherlock being arrested for killing someone. He didn't think that the brunet would ever go so far- it would be like an admission that he wasn't smart enough to think his way out of a tight spot.

"Don't touch anything. I'm on my way."

"Wait- Greg- you misunderstood. Sherlock isn't responsible for the dead guy. He didn't fire _that_ gun. In fact," here John seemed to hesitate, "nobody did."

"Are you in shock or something, John, because that didn't make a whole lot of sense!?" Greg could hear the sound of sirens in the background.

"Hurry. I think we're going to need a friend on the force to smooth things over." John hung up.

oOo

It only took ten minutes to get there, but by the time Lestrade arrived, the scene was crawling with police cars, an ambulance and too many armed SO19 officers. Gunfire in one of London's most exclusive residential areas always made the Met nervous. Packed with aristocracy, millionaire immigrants and a sprinkling of embassies and consulates, Belgravia was supposed to be one of the safest parts of town.

He flashed his badge and got through the police cordon, ducking under the tape and in through the front door of Number 26. He was stopped in the hall by a plain-clothes officer, wearing all the hallmarks of SO6.  _Uh oh; that mean's something has happened to Sherlock._ His badge was checked, and then he was waved through. To his left, he spotted the medical examiner on his knees beside a body through the door to the drawing room, which was packed with officers. A pair of them was hoisting up a handcuffed but barely conscious man. Before he could walk into the room, his attention was drawn to the sight of a suited man on the hall stairs landing. "Up here, sir. He's in the master bedroom."  _One of Mycroft's minions?_

Even before he got through the bedroom door, he could see Watson bent over the figure of Sherlock, lying on floor. There was a para-medic alongside.

"What the hell happened?!" Greg went down on one knee beside Sherlock, his eyes scanning the man for obvious wounds. Sherlock was barely conscious, being held down in the recovery position on his side, but still struggling weakly against John's grip. The para-medic was trying to shine a penlight into his eyes.

John answered tersely. "He was drugged." He was holding an empty syringe, and he handed it to the agent who had followed Lestrade into the room. "Get it tested. As quickly as possible. She said she'd used it on people, presumably her clients, said he would sleep for a few hours. But she also warned me to watch for aspiration."

The paramedic nodded. "My guess is GHB- a pretty hefty dose, given intravenously, so very quick acting. At first, it makes them a bit dopey, but soon enough the other effects should emerge."

"Which are?" John glared at the paramedic, who looked a bit surprised.

"I thought you said you're a doctor."

"Yes, but I'm a trauma surgeon- so date rape drugs aren't exactly in my repertoire. Look- it matters, because he's not neuro-typical, and can have paradoxical reactions to drugs. So, I need to know what you think will happen."

As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. In a very unfocussed gaze. He turned his head and his grey green eyes latched onto Lestrade. The brunet smirked, a slurred "ooops" came out. He struggled to sit upright. "Uh oh." He looked at the DI with a sheepish grin. "I seem to be under the influence, and that's not…good, with you standing there." He pointed unsteadily at the DI, who tried to give him a reassuring look.

"Take it easy, Sherlock. Not your fault this time." Greg and John helped him sit up, because he seemed to be having difficulties coordinating those long legs and arms.

Sherlock looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. "Where am I? What happened?" He wasn't at all anxious; in fact, he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh.

John answered. "She drugged you."

"Who?" Both Sherlock and Lestrade asked the question at exactly the same time. That made Sherlock giggle. "Like an owl…whoo."

John sighed. "Never mind; this will have to wait until the drug has worn off." The doctor turned to the paramedic. "What's likely to happen next?"

The paramedic smirked. "Well, if he follows the norm, he's going to get rather affectionate- it loosens inhibitions, and it's been known to make people suggestible and…ah...randy."

As he struggled to get Sherlock to his feet, the tall brunet giggled and hung onto John for dear life, as if he'd just discovered a life sized teddy bear. Lestrade could hardly contain his smirk.

 _Oh, joy._  John just closed his eyes.  _Now people will REALLY talk._

oOo

John convinced Lestrade to come with him to Baker Street- first to provide a police car there, because a taxi driver would take one look at a man who couldn't stand up and assume he was drunk and likely to throw up in the back. No matter how much they charged for a clean-up, it was never enough to compensate for having to take the cab out of action for the rest of the day and night to get rid of the vomit smell- so nobody would agree to take them, and John knew it.

And Lestrade wasn't about to let this one go. "Mycroft may get to the Kensington boys to stifle this one, but…I want the truth, the whole truth. Nobody who drugs Sherlock is going to get away with it, if I have anything to say about it. So, I'll take a statement from you once we've got Mr Sunshine here safely home."

The man in question was now sitting quietly with a bemused grin on his face, in the back seat of the squad car. John wasn't convinced that Sherlock wouldn't throw up and suddenly react to the drug in an unpredictable way. This was the guy who could be given a shot of haloperidol by an A&E team at a hospital and become even  _more_  agitated, on a dose that should have floored an elephant. So, he didn't trust a non-medical person in the back. That said, he also wanted to keep his distance, too, lest the rumour mill at the Yard got even more material.

When John got in on the other side of the back seat, he was greeted by a cheery "Hello, John. I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten me."

 _As if I could._  John slid across the back seat toward his friend, put on his doctor face and looked at Sherlock's pupil dilation. Still constricted beyond belief; the man was high as a kite. The expression on Sherlock's face was just …open, relaxed, and somehow it made him look ten years younger and vulnerable, rather sweet. He was holding his seatbelt as if he'd never seen it before, and hadn't a clue what to do with it.

The DI got into the front passenger seat and the constable driving put the car into gear, moving off while John was still trying to get Sherlock's seatbelt latched- and took a sharp right turn onto Elizabeth Street, throwing John's balance completely off kilter. He ended up virtually sitting in his flatmate's lap. Usually, his flatmate avoided any physical contact, but this time Sherlock laughed out loud, and just hugged John to stop him from ending up on the floor. Greg sniggered, and he heard the ominous sound of a phone taking a picture behind him.

"Don't  _you_  start!" John growled this. The sloppy grin on Sherlock's face vanished, and he looked like a ten year old kid who'd been caught doing something wrong.

"I'm …sorry, John." He let go of him and shrank back like he'd been slapped.

 _Oh, Christ. Now I've upset him._  John put on a big smile, and said, "It's OK Sherlock; I'm not mad at you, just at Lestrade." He clambered back into his seat and clipped himself in. Sherlock was watching his every move, with the usual fascination reserved for murder victims or three week old cadavers. It made John uncomfortable.

Sherlock might be seriously drugged, but he was still able to deduce John's discomfort, and his expression crumpled. "You  _are_ mad at me. What have I done wrong this time?"

"No, I'm not. I'm worried about you. This is me being worried."

Now, the brunet wouldn't meet his eye at all. He tried to look out the window, but then scrunched his eyes shut as if the sight of moving traffic, pedestrians and all the buildings was too much to bear. He gasped and looked back into the taxi in a bit of a panic. He pulled absently on his seatbelt, as if fighting the restriction. Greg was watching, using the mirror on his sun visor.

_Uh oh. Sensory overload. He's going to get scared in a minute._

"Pull over for a minute, will you?," he asked the PC driving.

When the car stopped, he got out of the front seat and opened the passenger door on Sherlock's side. He unlatched the man's seatbelt and told Sherlock to slide over into the middle, which he did.

He put his right arm on the back of the seat behind Sherlock, who instinctively moved in to lean toward the older man. ""It's alright, Sherlock. I've got you. It's OK, just close your eyes."

John looked at Lestrade in surprise. He'd not seen this before from the man. And Sherlock's response was just more eye-opening. He knew that the DI had known Sherlock for years before he'd arrived on the scene, but most of his contact over the past two years had been at crime scenes, standing around a body or working at the Yard on investigations. The doctor knew that there was history between them, but he'd never really probed much. He didn't like talking about his own history- why bother, when Sherlock was able to deduce everything he wanted to about his flatmate? Sherlock never volunteered anything about his own past.  _Boring, tedious_ \- the standard answers to any sort of half-hearted query by John.

When the police car went around Hyde Park Corner and turned onto Park Lane, Sherlock leaned even more onto Lestrade, tucking his head into the man's shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut. John looked at the DI, and made a silent gesture of "what's happening?"

Very quietly, Lestrade just said. "The drug is pushing him into sensory overload; not nice. He needs to get home fast, or he'll end up having a meltdown or panic attack."

Around Marble Arch, the car had to speed up and move across lanes of swirling traffic to get into the correct lane to get onto Baker Street. The lurches brought a low moan from Sherlock, who clung onto the DI as if to a lifeline. "Just hang in there, Sherlock. Not long now, and then the world will stop spinning out of control, I promise."

oOo

 By the time they drew up outside Baker Street, John was definitely worried. The doctor got out, as Lestrade tried to talk Sherlock into getting out on his side of the car. As soon as he managed to get to the edge of the seat with his feet out the door, Sherlock's head went down and he vomited. Greg just kept his hand on the brunet's back until he was done, and handed him a handkerchief to clean his mouth. John squatted down to take a good look at his friend's eyes- still constricted into tiny pinpricks. His question, "Can you manage to stand up, Sherlock?" was answered by a simple nod, then a mumbled "..try…"

Between the two of them, Greg and John managed to get him to the front door. Praying that Mrs Hudson was home, John hit the doorbell rather than risk fumbling for his keys.

The landlady was horrified at the sight. "Oh, Good Lord. What's happened? Is he alright?" The two men got him into the hall. John tried to reassure her. "He's been drugged by a suspect, Mrs Hudson. He should be OK once he's slept it off."

"What happened to his face?"

Without thinking, John answered. "Oh, I did that." Greg gave him a sharp look of disbelief. "Not that way, Lestrade- he  _asked_ me to do it- part of his disguise to get into the house."

John was looking up stairs and wondering how they were going to manhandle Sherlock up the seventeen steps. Greg just pushed Sherlock up against the wall, leaned up against him and then bent at the waist and knees, allowing Sherlock to drop over his shoulder as if he'd done it many times before. With a grunt, he stood up, holding Sherlock's legs against his chest, and letting the lanky man's head drop across his back. He staggered over to the first step.

"Are you sure about this? Shouldn't we do this together?" John worried about the pair of them collapsing half way up.

"Don't worry," the DI panted. Slowly, step by step, he went up. The doctor slipped past them to get the door to the flat open. Lestrade was puffing heavily by the time he reached the top, but kept going into the bedroom. John helped him unload the now comatose brunet onto the bed, and started on removing his shoes while Greg recovered his breath. "Jeez," he wheezed, "he's put on weight. You must be getting him to eat more these days."

Sherlock was pretty much out of it, but allowed John to move him into the recovery position on his side and pull the duvet up around his shoulders. The doctor found the bin in the corner of the room and placed it close to the side of the bed, just in case Sherlock felt the need to throw up again. Lestrade was standing in the doorway, watching Sherlock with a concerned look on his face. John checked Sherlock's pulse, and counted his respirations. Slow, but acceptable. He was going to need to sleep it off. Lestrade shut the curtains and turned off the overhead light to ease the sensory stimulation.

John left the door open a bit as the two men went back into the living room. "I need a cup of tea. Want one?" When the DI nodded, John went into the kitchen, as the silver haired man went into the living room and sat down rather heavily in Sherlock's chair. John was reminded of the first time he'd seen Lestrade sitting there, on the night he moved into Baker Street, when the DI had staged his pretend drugs bust. A lot had happened since then.

When John delivered a steaming cup to Greg, he sat down in his chair and just looked at the DI, as if seeing him for the first time. "You…hoisted him up over your shoulder like you've done it before. In fact, lots of times before. Want to tell me the whys and wherefores?"

Greg looked up from his tea. Brown eyes met blue, and John could see there was indecision in them. He needed to address that. "You're wondering what right I have to know. If it's any of my business. Yeah, I can understand that."

The older man shook his head. "No, that's not what I'm thinking. Really, John, I'm really wondering why we haven't had this conversation before." Then he looked bemused. "I suppose it's because we only really cross paths when we are standing over a dead body watching him dance about, solving things that no one else in their right mind could even imagine, let alone deduce."

John slowly nodded. "I know I've had the occasional pint with you and the Yarders, but that's not private enough for this sort of conversation. And I've not asked, either; in part, because our mutual friend refuses to talk to me about his past- 'boring, tedious, John; what matters is the present.' It's his motto. But, I remember the first night I met you, I asked why you worked with him. You really surprised me when you said Sherlock is a great man, and that you thought one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. I hadn't a clue what you meant then. I do now. So, tell me more. All of it- or, at least, as much as you think I should know."

So, Greg told him about the night he first met a skinny seventeen year old, who was a possible accessory to a murder. Then he told him the tale of the Pountney Club and then the time Sherlock solved Greg's investigation into the death of a trafficker in drugs and illegal immigrants.

"Mycroft wasn't much impressed by Sherlock's interest in police work. Did his damnedest to keep him away from me and the Yard. Tried to scare me witless a few times; almost succeeded, too. But like a bad penny, Sherlock kept turning up. The cocaine thing; yeah, that was worrying- especially when I found him on a rooftop in the middle of a lethal overdose. The drugs are the reason I learned how to pick him up and get him squared away before he hurt himself."

"As a result, Sherlock trusted me. He told me the reason for the drugs, and I've watched over him during detox. I told him that the only way he could ever work with me or the Yard was if he is clean. He's fallen off the wagon a few times, and I force him into a time-out until he can prove he's ready. Over the years, Mycroft and I made our peace, mostly because Sherlock didn't give him a choice.

"He told me about the SPD and being on the Spectrum. It wasn't news, helps that my nephew Sam is autistic; I can recognise the signs. I've watched him over the years deal with death, blood and gore that would make a retiring DI puke- all without batting an eye. Take him to an amusement park, the Underground at rush hour or a New Year's Eve celebration in Trafalgar Square, and he'll melt down every time, and turn into a quivering mass. After today, I'll add date rape drugs to that list. I've learned where he can be pushed, and the no-go areas. He is, without a doubt, the most stubborn man I have ever known. And rude. I'm now so used to his calling me an idiot that if he doesn't, my first instinct is that he is ill." This thought gave rise to a wry smile.

"Until you came along, I wondered if anyone was ever going to see the positive things I see, along with the certifiably difficult problems."

That raised an echoing wry smile from the ex-Army doctor.

"And, heavens above, you're a doctor. You have no idea how relieved that makes me." Lestrade rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "You know how he hates hospitals; nearly driven me mad how he would walk away from a crime scene with an injury that I knew had to be looked at, but would he ever take my advice? Not on your life."

John smirked. "Don't overestimate my influence, Greg; it's a battle I lose more often than not."

"Maybe- but I meant what I said last week. He's better with you than I have ever seen him. I don't know what miracles have occurred. Don't want to know, actually. Just for God's sake, keep it up whatever it is you're doing. Because this Moriarty thing has got me well and truly scared. Was this morning's episode anything to do with that?"

John wasn't sure what he should say. Moriarty was Mycroft territory, and he didn't want to give too much away. If he did, given the fact that the man was probably listening in right now, he could expect another rendezvous with a black car and that attractive PA.

The DI sensed his hesitation. "Look, I know I'm not to get involved. Mycroft has made that clear to me. He's insisting on vetting every Yard case that I might want to get Sherlock in on, just in case that mad bomber is involved. I know he's doing the same to your blog. You know what I thought about Sherlock's behaviour during that little pips campaign of his. So, I'm just telling you- it scares me. The games he plays with Sherlock's mind – and yours- really, really worry me."

"You and me both, Greg." John finished his tea, and sat his RAMC mug down on the mantel piece. "What I can do is tell you what happened in Belgravia today, and leave you to draw any conclusions you want to make."

So, he did. Lestrade took out a notebook from his jacket pocket and started to make notes.

oOo

"A dominatrix?  _Shit_."

"When I walked into the drawing room, she was sitting on his lap on the sofa, stark naked, apart from stiletto heels and a pair of earrings. "

Greg's eyes grew big. "That must have gone down like a bucket of cold sick."

John thought about it. "Actually, you might be surprised. Oh, he didn't…ah…you know,  _respond_  to her in the way that most guys I know would, but he was sort of, I don't know,  _fascinated_."

Lestrade probed. "Do you mean fascinated in the way he gets when a particularly gruesome cadaver shows up at the morgue? Or are we talking sexual stuff here?" The DI's incredulity was clear. John stored that little fact away, to think about later. Not now. Now he had to keep up the story.

"More like the cadaver. But what happened next only complicates the fascination." He described the scam that they used to get Irene to identify where the phone was, but then the arrival of the Americans threw their plans into disarray. He explained when the agent held a gun to his head and threatened to shoot him if Sherlock didn't get the safe open. "He kept saying he didn't know the code, and the woman backed him up, but the American couldn't care less. Just said if he was any good, he'd be able to figure it out."

Lestrade eyed the doctor, as if looking to see signs of shock or trauma. "He must have done so, because you're still in one piece."

John smiled. "Yeah, not only that, he deduced that the safe was protected by a gun rigged up to go off if anyone tried to open it unawares. He ducked as he opened it, and it caught point blank that guy who'd had his gun to my head. That's what I meant when I said nobody had fired the shot that killed him." He looked down into his tea cup, wondering whether it was time to offer Lestrade something stronger. "It's not the first time I 've been grateful for his ability to think while under pressure."

"After that, he fired the gun in the street to wake up the police. We thought it was pretty much a done deal. He had the phone in his hands. If I hadn't left him alone with her in the bedroom, we wouldn't be sitting here now, worrying about him. It was my fault- I was an idiot. I went downstairs to check that there were no other Americans lurking around. When I got back up there, he was on the floor and the woman was gone before the first copper got in the door."

Lestrade looked up from his notebook, sensing that John's narrative had come to a halt. "I suppose she will go to ground now. I'll check to see how the Kensington team got on in the house; but she sounds rather too professional to have slipped up and left anything incriminating. By the sounds of it- not to mention the presence of dead Americans, SO6 and Mycroft's own people on site- this story isn't going to hit a police blotter anytime soon." Greg sighed. "You're sure he'll be alright?"

John gave a half shrug. "Medically, yeah- if Mycroft's crew haven't come back to tell me it's something other than GHB, then my guess he will just sleep it off. Psychologically, I think he's going to be pissed off, madder than hell and really, really annoyed to have been bested by that woman. You  _know_  he doesn't like losing."

"Tell me about it. He won't give up, John, not the remotest chance. She's hit the one button of his guaranteed to result in a replay."

As the two men exchanged worried glances, John heard a muffled noise from the hall to Sherlock's room. "John?" Then the sound of a body hitting the floor and a louder, "JOHN!"

Greg smiled. "Go on, I'll leave him in your good hands. Just keep an eye on him for me, will you?"


	2. Chapter 2

"We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance."

 _Oh, God._ DI Lestrade's imagination played a scene of death and destruction. Sherlock hadn't called for an ambulance when the flat across the street was blown up at the beginning of Moriarty's "game", despite the flying glass and being completely blown off his feet by the blast wave. So, if he is asking for an ambulance this time…. "Who's been hurt? You, John, or both?"

"Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured."

The movie in Greg's head changed mid-scene. Now he was worried about a dead burglar;  _Please don't make it over some minor theft._  Lestrade knew that Sherlock sometimes found it hard to understand the dividing line between a proper response and one that was "over-the-top" when meting out justice to some criminal who had dared to presume that he could use physical violence against the detective. In those cases, at least he had an excuse of self-defence against a violent criminal. The DI had no idea what would happen if something like his precious skull had been nicked by some crazy kid for a dare. The tight clipped tones of that baritone voice betrayed just how wound up Sherlock was- and that scared Greg.

"How bad are his injuries?"

"Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung."

Greg's heart sank.  _Please don't let the burglar press charges._  "You know that defending your property only allows you to use reasonable force, Sherlock. I hope you haven't done something that you will regret if he accuses you of assault. _Please_ tell me that you didn't have a gun." At least this time, Sherlock was on the phone, so presumably not drugged by a dominatrix. On the other hand, at least that time, he'd had an excuse.

Sherlock's reply was only a bit reassuring: "He fell out of a window," and then he hung up.

DI Lestrade was not one to encroach on other officers' territory. Protocol inside the Met was pretty tight. The Homicide and Serious Crimes Division in which he worked was keen to avoid wasting resources on more mundane everyday crime. So, Lestrade's first instinct was to say, "Not my division."

Still, this was Sherlock. Who knows what might be involved? Besides, he wasn't sure that he wanted to leave a burglar for any length of time to the not-so-tender mercies of Sherlock. So he rang for an ambulance on 999, and then he called the local police station nearest to the flat, insisting the St John's Wood Crime Investigation Unit treat it as a priority. As the perpetrator was still on the premises, he decided he could legitimately justify telling the local bobbies to put in an appearance. He knew from experience that otherwise it might be days before they got around to a routine break-in, so he made sure they agreed to send a car around as quickly as possible.

He then spent the next hour trying to finish the paperwork on his Murder Investigation Team's latest arrest. It was hard to concentrate on it, however, as his mind kept going back to his phone call with Sherlock. The man had not sounded upset or annoyed; he'd been  _angry._  That worried Lestrade. The DI knew that Sherlock was rarely roused to anger. Sarcasm was his more usual reaction to someone doing something threatening. He'd been with him when suspects were apprehended, sometimes after a chase and pursuit that got physical before an arrest could be made. But Sherlock was almost always in control of himself. It was funny that; some of his own officers could lose it, if the victim was a child, or vulnerable adult- and an arrest would be a little "physical" as a result. One more reason for Sally Donovan to call him a Freak, when he didn't react the way the rest of the team did.

 _So, what's got him angry this time?_  It kept niggling him.

Finally, he gave up and closed the report. He'd call it a day and head over to Baker Street to see what actually had happened. He came around the corner from the Underground Station and was surprised to see both a squad car and an ambulance still at the scene.

It might have been the black government car that was pulling away from the kerb that tipped him off that this was something more than just a simple burglary. And then he got really worried as he passed a flack-jacketed SO19 officer carrying away a pistol with a silencer on it in a transparent evidence bag.

He found Sherlock in the hallway of the flat, finishing his statement to a Sergeant from St John's Wood.

"…no, you can't interview her yet. She's still shaken by the encounter. A doctor is with her now in her flat back there. If she's feeling up to it tomorrow, she might give a statement."

Lestrade looked horrified. "Mrs Hudson?! Oh God, is she alright? Did the burglar hurt her?"  _Oh no; now he's got motive._  Greg knew that Sherlock made a considerable exception to his sociopathic tendencies for his landlady.

"Bruises and scrapes; John is with her now."

The Sergeant looked annoyed at the DI's intrusion. "Just who are you, and why are you on my Crime Scene?" Greg showed his warrant card.

The Sergeant threw his hands up in the air, "Oh, for Christ's sake, now a Murder Investigation Team? To hell with it! I give up!" and he stalked off back down the stairs, watched by an incredulous Lestrade.

Sherlock just shook his head. "Don't bother, Lestrade. He's just in way over his head."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands in a gesture of confusion. "What is going on, Sherlock?"

"Turns out that the burglar is claiming diplomatic immunity. That government car which just pulled away had some irritating fellow from the American embassy trying to pull rank. Your poor local policeman plod has just been pushed around by SO6, then SO19, then the Americans,  _and_  finally Mycroft's lot. The chances of this ever seeing the inside of a courtroom are nil."

"What was he trying to steal?"

Sherlock looked at the DI. "I'm afraid that I can't answer that. According to Mycroft's minion, I am not at liberty to discuss it."

Greg rolled his eyes. "That normally doesn't stop you, so if you are going to refuse to answer my question, it's because you don't want me to know." He thought about it for a while, and then carried on "…which means it's probably something to do with the last time you called the police by firing a gun in the street in Belgravia."

"You might think that, Lestrade; I couldn't possible comment." He smirked.

The sound of a siren starting drew Greg and Sherlock back out to the street, where they watched the ambulance pull away.

"Why's it taken so long for them to take the man to hospital?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, he landed in a rather awkward place- on top of Mrs Hudson's bins, in the back. Took them a while to realise he was there and then to figure out how to move him without risking a spinal injury."

"And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?"

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count."

Lestrade gave him a look, one borne of years of knowing him.  _What the fuck, Sherlock?_

The tall brunet gave him one of those fake reassuring smiles of his.

Greg sighed and headed back across the road toward the underground station. He didn't like being kept on the outside; whatever was going on with this Adler woman was starting to really worry him. And he really. really didn't like Sherlock keeping secrets from him.


End file.
